One Slip
by Marianna Morgan
Summary: Pre-series – Injured Sam / Big Brother Dean / Somewhat Awesome John – For a horrifying, heart-stopping moment, Sam was gone; was nothing more than a distorted blur of color beneath the water.
1. Chapter 1

**Summary**: Pre-series – Injured Sam / Big Brother Dean / Somewhat Awesome John – For a horrifying, heart-stopping moment, Sam was gone; was nothing more than a distorted blur of color beneath the water.

**Disclaimer**: Not mine.

**Warnings**: Blood and usual language

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><p><em>Falls are the leading cause of accidental injury among children. More than 2.3 million children ages 14 and under are treated annually at hospital emergency rooms for fall-related injuries. ~ Children's Hospital of Pittsburgh<em>

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><p>"Dad's back," Dean reported even before he glanced over his shoulder; the unmistakable rumble of their father's truck heralding its arrival before it actually pulled into the motel's parking lot.<p>

"Already?" Sam asked; his eyes closed as he floated on his back; his bare chest simultaneously warmed by the July sun and cooled by the water of the motel's swimming pool.

"What d'ya mean 'already'? He's been gone for almost five hours," Dean reminded, watching John park his truck beside the Impala and then jot something in his journal; the leather-bound book propped against the steering wheel.

"Yeah, I know," Sam agreed, his arms gliding through the water as he continued to float; his hair fanning out around his head. "I just..."

Sam sighed.

Dean quirked a knowing smile and glanced back at his brother. Like a typical kid, Sam was never ready to get out of the pool. "Dude, you've been in here almost the whole time Dad's been gone."

Sam pulled his legs beneath the water and sat up; his shoulders completely submerged, his feet barely touching the concrete bottom of the pool. "So?" he asked, in that tone mastered by children in response to an obvious statement. "This is the first time I've gone swimming all summer."

And they both knew depending on upcoming hunts, it might be his last.

Because today's break had been nothing short of a miracle. It was strange enough that John would allow them to go back to the motel instead of requiring them to join him over at the library. But for John to actually make the suggestion himself was almost unheard of; a pass that was usually only granted if one of them was sick or injured.

And yet, here they were; had been poolside all afternoon with their dad's blessing.

"You boys head on back," John had said casually as the three of them had exited the diner after lunch a few hours earlier.

Dean had glanced at John but had said nothing; had been momentarily startled by the suggestion and then had been concerned they had done something wrong to warrant dismissal; had been quickly running through the morning's events when Sam had spoken.

"Back to the motel?"

John had nodded. "It's hot."

Sam had wrinkled his nose, confused as to when weather had started to factor into their plans. "So?"

John had smiled as they had approached the curb of the sidewalk; had placed a yielding arm across Sam's chest even though he had known the 12-year old was more than capable of watching for traffic before crossing the street. "So, I thought maybe you would want to go swimming?"

Sam had immediately beamed up at his father and had grabbed John's arm. "Really?"

John had chuckled; the extra time he would have to spend researching alone having just been made completely worth it by Sam's excitement. "Really," he had affirmed, tousling the kid's hair before releasing his youngest to cross the street and then had glanced at his oldest. "Dean..."

"Be careful, Sam," Dean had called out of habit, watching as his brother had run ahead of them towards the Impala parked on the opposite side of the road, and then had turned to face his father as they continued to stand on the sidewalk. "Sir?"

"You're quiet," John had stated and had arched an eyebrow, indicating he had expected an explanation.

Dean had shaken his head as he and John had begun to cross the street. "I'm fine. Just..." He had paused, smiling. "You're kinda freaking me out."

John had laughed. "A man can't be in a good mood?"

"Well, yeah. Sure you can, but..." Dean's voice had trailed off as a car from the opposite direction had suddenly appeared on the horizon. "Wait, Sam..." he had called, even though Sam had already been waiting in the turning lane for the car to pass.

Sam had looked over his shoulder in annoyance. "I can see the car, Dean," he had bitched; tone of voice and facial expression matching perfectly.

"Good," Dean had praised. "Can you see this?"

"Dean..." John had admonished before his oldest could flip off his youngest.

But Sam had known his brother's intentions and had laughed.

Dean had smiled in return. He loved that kid.

The car had passed without incident.

"So, tell me again why I can't be in a good mood?" John had prompted Dean, glancing at Sam as his youngest had run across the other lane of the road and then had jumped over the curb on the opposite sidewalk as if it had been a massive hurdle.

Dean had shaken his head at his brother's antics and then had shrugged. "You can be. I just always have the urge to say 'Christo' whenever you are."

John had laughed. "Nice," he had replied, but had been saddened by the realization of how rare it was that he showed this side of himself to his sons; so rare that his oldest automatically assumed a good mood equaled possession.

There had been silence.

"There's still a lot to go over," Dean had commented as they both had reached the opposite side of the street.

John had shrugged. "There is," he had agreed and then had nodded at his youngest already standing on the passenger side of the Impala. "But Sam needs a break sometimes." He had glanced at Dean. "And so do you."

"You too, Dad," Dean had reminded as he had stared at John meaningfully.

John had nodded as he had stood beside his truck – parked in front of the Impala – and had quirked a smile; had been unexpectedly touched by Dean's concern.

"Let's go, Dean!" Sam had yelled, had been practically bouncing beside the Impala.

Dean had cut his eyes at his brother. "Chill, Sam. The pool's not going anywhere."

John had chuckled while he had unlocked his truck.

"Do we have a hunt tonight?" Dean had asked as John had opened his driver's side door.

John had shaken his head. "Not unless I find more than I expect at the library this afternoon."

"We could help research," Dean had offered, to which Sam had immediately made a dismayed sound; as though he had been concerned John would accept Dean's offer.

Dean had glared at his brother. _Shut up, Sam._

But John had shaken his head again. "Not much has happened since we pulled into town, so we're probably just chasing a cold trail anyway."

Dean had nodded, ignoring the relieved sigh from Sam.

John had smiled and had climbed up into his truck. "Sam..." – _mind your brother_ – "...Dean..." – _watch out for Sam_ – "...you boys enjoy your afternoon, and I'll see you in a few hours," John had said and then had pulled his door shut, had cranked the engine, and had driven off.

Dean had watched until John had turned the corner and was out of sight; had felt torn between being a son and being a brother.

"Can we go now?" Sam had huffed from where he had leaned across the Impala's hood.

"Dude, off the car," Dean had barked as he had turned to unlock his driver's side door. "You'll dent the hood with those bony elbows of yours."

Sam had laughed and had lingered on the hood a few seconds longer just because he could. "Hey, Dean?"

Dean had sighed. He loved his little brother, but sometimes Sam grated on his nerves when he was all wound up like this. "Yeah?" he had ventured as he had ducked into the Impala and had immediately rolled down the driver's side window.

"Are you going swimming with me?" Sam had asked as he had slid into the passenger seat and had done the same with the window on his side.

Dean had snorted and had turned his key in the ignition. "What do _you _think?"

"No," Sam had instantly responded; his tone and expression reflecting his disappointment. "But we could get you another bathing suit. We found mine at that Goodwill place, and they probably have one for you, too, and then you could..."

"Save it, Sam," Dean had interrupted as he had eased the Impala into traffic. "Swim trunks are way too close to shorts, and I don't do shorts."

Sam had rolled his eyes.

"Besides..." Dean had continued, speaking a little louder than usual as the warm wind had roared through the Impala's open windows. "I'm too old to play in the pool."

Sam had wrinkled his nose. "No, you're not. That's stupid," he had declared as he had stuck his arm out the window on the passenger side and had allowed the resistance of the wind to blow his hand back against the doorframe.

Dean had shaken his head. "When you're 16, you'll understand," he had advised sagely.

To which Sam had rolled his eyes again. "Whatever."

There had been silence.

"But you're still gonna come watch me, right?" Sam had asked hopefully; his hazel-green eyes impossibly large under his fringe of bangs as he had turned to stare at Dean from the passenger seat.

Dean had glanced at his brother and had smiled. "What do _you_ think?"

And that had been almost five hours ago.

From the time they had reached the motel, Sam had been a whirl of activity. He had changed clothes in record time – donning his royal blue bathing suit with yellow stripes down either side; had grabbed one of the standard white towels from the bathroom; and had ran out of their room and was halfway down the sidewalk before Dean had caught up with him – a stunt which had earned Sam a stern lecture about slowing his scrawny ass down and, 12-years old or not, waiting for his big brother.

But since then, everything had gone well.

Dean had been patiently sitting by the pool – which was remarkably large and clean for such a small, somewhat skanky motel – and had been relieved when no one else had joined them on the deck all afternoon, allowing Dean to relax a little himself.

Sam had enjoyed having reign over the entire pool, and Dean had watched the kid do everything from cannon balls to underwater handstands and flips to whatever other "tricks" his brother had come up with.

And while that was fine, and Dean was glad that Sam was having a good time and enjoying himself, Dean was also ready to move on to something else. Sam's antics were certainly entertaining; but truthfully, Dean was bored and was hot – even though he had shed his boots, socks, and t-shirt hours ago – and he was looking forward to going inside.

Sam on the other hand...

Dean glanced at his brother as the kid bobbed in place in the middle of the pool; Sam's thin arms treading water as his legs did the same. "Sam..."

Sam sighed, swiping his plastered bangs off his forehead and blinking against the water that dripped down his face as a result. He knew what was coming.

"Time to get out," Dean advised and then narrowed his eyes.

Was it just him, or did Sam's shoulders look a little red? They had both put on sunscreen earlier – a bottle over a year old that Dean had found at the bottom of his duffle – but now Dean was beginning to wonder if such things expired.

Experimentally, Dean lightly pressed his palm over his own bare chest, feeling heat from the sun but not feeling sunburned, which meant Sam was probably okay, too. Even still, Dean reached behind himself for his t-shirt.

"Sam..." Dean called again.

"Just five more minutes," Sam begged and then Dean watched as the kid dove forward like a skinny little torpedo, disappearing under the water as his feet kicked furiously.

Dean shook his head at his little brother and then pulled his t-shirt on; smoothing the worn grey fabric over his chest. He paused, impressed with himself at how well-defined his pecs were becoming with the extra physical training he had been assigned since he had turned 16, and then reached under his collar to free the amulet.

"Dean..."

Dean turned at the sound of his father's voice, a little embarrassed that he had not heard John exit his truck or approach the pool.

"Hey, Dad," Dean greeted as he stood – the concrete almost unbearably hot to his bare feet – and stepped around the dingy plastic lounger he had been sitting on by the edge of the water.

John squinted up, blocking the sun with his arm as he waited for Dean to cross to the side of the deck; the enclosure surrounding the pool several feet higher than the parking lot.

In the next instant, Dean appeared. "Have much luck?" he asked, leaning against the wooden railing as he peered down at his father.

John shook his head. "Just more dead ends," he answered and sighed, seeming more tired and in less of a good mood than before.

Dean nodded.

"Having fun?" John asked knowingly, his lips hinting a smile.

Dean shrugged and glanced over his shoulder at the sound of Sam noisily splashing as the kid surfaced from his impromptu underwater excursion. "Sam is," he stated flatly, even as he smiled and then looked back at his father.

John nodded and chuckled. "He's always loved the water," he agreed; his spirits momentarily lifted at the sounds of his youngest being a goofy, 12-year old kid.

In the next instant, Sam laughed for no apparent reason and then dove forward again, kicking particularly hard and splashing the deck.

"Dude!" Dean yelled, sidestepping the sudden spray of water.

John chuckled again and shook his head, his smile lingering; reluctant to end this moment – Sam having fun, both boys obviously relaxed – but knowing they needed to move on.

Dean's focus flickered between keeping an eye on Sam as the kid continued to swim underwater and keeping an ear out for John, because Dean knew what was coming.

As if on cue, John sighed. "Alright..." he began. "You boys wrap it up. As far as I can tell, there's no case in this town. But Bobby called a little while ago. He's a few towns over in Willow Creek and thinks he has a lead on something. So I want to be packed and on the road in ten minutes."

"Yes, sir," Dean replied, his mind already listing all that needed to be done in that short timeframe. "What about dinner?"

John smiled, wondering if his oldest was ever _not_ hungry. "We'll meet up with Bobby, and then we'll get dinner. But right now, get Sam, get packed, and get loaded. Ten minutes..."

"Yes, sir," Dean replied again and watched as John nodded and then turned away, crossing back to their motel room only three doors down from the pool and disappearing inside.

Dean sighed and then returned his attention to his brother as the kid once again resurfaced.

"Sam..."

Sam rubbed his hand over his face – palm and fingers wrinkly from being in the water so long – and looked up at Dean expectantly.

"Out," Dean ordered and gave his brother a hard look to reinforce that he was serious this time.

"Oh, man..." Sam whined but nodded his understanding and began to swim toward the deep end to the pool's only ladder.

Dean watched intently, knowing Sam was a strong swimmer but always feeling inexplicably nervous when he knew the kid could no longer touch the bottom.

"Be careful getting out," Dean warned as his brother neared the ladder on the far side of the pool.

"Yeah, yeah..." Sam replied, and although the kid's back was to Dean, Dean knew his brother had rolled his eyes.

Dean quirked a smile, continuing to watch Sam swim, and then heard the sound of the motel room door creaking open again.

"Dean..." John called even before he was on the sidewalk.

Dean glanced over his shoulder, seeing John emerge from their room, and then looked back at Sam as the kid finally reached the far end of the pool and was grasping either side of the ladder to pull himself up.

Dean nodded his approval and then turned his back to his brother as John called his name again.

"Dean..."

"Yes, sir?" Dean responded; the words barely leaving his mouth before Sam made a startled sound – half gasp, half yell – that was immediately followed by a huge splash.

Dean spun around, instantly focused on where his brother should have been – by the ladder on the far side of the pool. But for a horrifying, heart-stopping moment, Sam was gone; was nothing more than a distorted blur of color beneath the water.

"Sam!" Dean yelled, amazed that he could say anything since his heart was suddenly lodged in his throat.

Sam made no response to indicate he had heard Dean, but his small body began to flail beneath the surface; the blue-hued water surrounding him beginning to turn vaguely pink.

"Oh my god..." Dean whispered – because this had the potential to be really fucking bad – and pushed off the side of the deck where he had been leaning. "Sam!" he yelled again before diving into the pool; not giving a shit that he was fully clothed.

John stood frozen on the sidewalk; panic spreading through his chest at the realization of some kind of accident happening mere feet away. Because he had heard Sam's startled shout, followed by Dean's frantic yell; a tone Dean only used when Sam was in danger. And although John could not see the actual pool from where he stood, it was obvious his oldest had just jumped in the water.

"Dean!" John bellowed; the motel room door left open as he ran down the sidewalk.

There was no answer.

"Shit!" John hissed, craning to see between the wooden slats of the fence surrounding the pool as he ran alongside of it. "Dean!" he yelled again, approaching the deck's gate as his oldest finally surfaced in a swell of water, bringing a gasping Sam with him. "Jesus..." John breathed at the sight; his fingers fumbling with the gate's latch. "Dean!"

But if Dean heard his father, he ignored him; solely focused on the coughing child held in his arms.

"You're okay," Dean panted over and over – because if Sam was coughing, he was breathing – and briefly held his brother at arm's length; giving the kid a once-over before clutching Sam to his chest with one arm and swimming toward the edge of the pool with the other.

Frustrated with the rusted latch on the gate, John took two steps back and then kicked it open; overwhelmed by a visceral need to be near his children; to know what had just happened and if Sam was indeed okay.

Dean glanced up at his father as John suddenly appeared.

"What happened?" John demanded, kneeling on the wet concrete.

"I think he slipped on the ladder," Dean reported, still panting from the rush of fear and panic and exertion as he finally reached shallower water and was able to wade more than swim.

Sam coughed harshly as he clung to his brother; his breaths ragged; his hands gripping the saturated fabric of Dean's t-shirt.

John swallowed his own emotions; willing himself to stay calm for his sons.

"Is he okay?" John asked, wishing he could see Sam's face to gauge the kid's condition for himself.

But his youngest was turned away; his thin, shuddering back towards John, while his face was pressed into the hollow created by Dean's neck and shoulder.

Sam coughed again before releasing a wheezed breath, and Dean tightened his grip, holding his brother impossibly closer.

"You're okay, Sammy," Dean soothed, even as his own heart hammered. "Just hang on..."

"Is he okay?" John asked again, worry making his tone sharp.

"I think so," Dean responded; his tone just as clipped with concern. "There's blood on his mouth and chin but – "

"Blood?" John interrupted; a fresh wave of panic passing over him. "How much?"

"Not too much," Dean assured for Sam's sake, even as his tone and facial expression indicated otherwise.

John nodded, knowing the face and mouth were extremely vascular areas; that even small injuries had a tendency to bleed like a bitch and look worse than they actually were.

"I think he hit his chin when he fell," Dean continued to casually report as he neared the edge of the pool. "And that knocked the breath out of him and made him bite his lip before he fell back in the water."

John nodded again – that scenario certainly made sense – and reached for his youngest child; hooking his hands under Sam's arms and gently lifting the kid up and out of the pool as Dean hauled himself out as well.

John – his shirt and jeans now soaked with water – set Sam on his feet but remained on his knees in order to stay eye level with his son. "Sam..."

Sam's breath hitched, but he made no other response as he stared at John.

John frowned, his large hands cupping over bony shoulders as he steadied his shaking child and got his first good look at the damage.

As expected – and as Dean had indirectly warned – blood was everywhere; was slightly diluted by the pool water and was thus quickly spreading over Sam's mouth and chin and down his neck.

John shook his head, amazed – even after everything he had experienced over the years – how quickly things could change. Because less than a minute ago, Sam was fine; was actually a happy, somewhat normal kid having a good time in the pool on a summer afternoon – and now, his youngest was scared and bleeding and on the verge of tears.

And despite John's intentions of remaining calm, the realization caused a fresh wave of anger; as if the world had just intentionally spit in his face and offered up this incident as a reminder that John could not protect his children from everything. That if it wanted to, the world or fate or whatever the fuck you wanted to call it, could take his boys just as quickly and as easily as it took his Mary – a fact that had always frightened John more than anything else.

"What the hell, Sam?" John demanded, realizing he sounded more accusatory than concerned; as if Sam had wanted to fall and become covered in blood from the neck up.

Sam's eyes widened; his wet, harsh breathing becoming more rapid as he blinked against welling tears.

In the next instant, Dean had cleared the side of the pool – his drenched clothes clinging to his body – and was unceremoniously shoving John aside.

"Don't yell at him," Dean warned, offering nothing more than a glance at John as he pushed his father back and then crouched in front of Sam, his eyes sweeping over his little brother. "Sammy..."

The kid was definitely a mess; was pale and bloody, shivering and shaken; bravely holding back threatening tears as he stared intensely at Dean.

"It's okay," Dean softly assured; his hand gently squeezing the back of his brother's neck; the fringe of the kid's hair dripping water over his fingers.

"Like hell it is!" John yelled again, his tone still pissed; always finding it easier to be angry than scared or worried. "You know better than to play on the ladder, Sam!"

Sam flinched as the words were hurled at him, and Dean was instantly done with John's bullshit.

"Enough," Dean growled, glaring at John over his shoulder. "Sam wasn't playing on the ladder."

"Then what hap – "

"Shit happens, Dad," Dean informed; his tone indicating this part of the conversation was over.

John narrowed his eyes. The older Dean got, the less he seemed to tolerate John yelling at Sam. And John was not sure if he was proud or pissed at the enhanced protective streak in his oldest.

Dean unflinchingly held his father's gaze – _I mean it. Leave him alone._

"Fine." John practically spat the word and then clenched his jaw; still too keyed up to let it go. "So, what the hell were _you_ doing, Dean? You're supposed to watch your brother!"

"He..." Sam's breath hitched, and he swallowed. "He was watching me," he quietly defended; fresh blood flowing from his bottom lip as he spoke.

Still crouched, Dean turned back to Sam and smiled proudly. Because while he was more than capable of holding his own against their old man, Dean was touched that his little brother – his dazed, injured little brother – would come to his defense.

_It's you and me against the world, kid._

Sam's attention flickered to Dean, and he smiled shyly; then winced as pain flared in his mouth.

Dean winced in sympathy and then squeezed his brother's neck again; a gesture of comfort and solidarity and _love_.

John watched the exchange in silence; anger abruptly draining and replaced with repentant frustration. Because what the fuck did he think he was accomplishing by yelling and attempting to assign blame for what was truly an accident? One son was injured and both sons were shaken, and here he was ranting like a lunatic.

There was silence.

John shook his head in disgust – because he was such a fucking idiot sometimes – and sighed. "I, um..."

There was more silence.

John cleared his throat; hating it when he had been an asshole to his kids. "I'm sorry." He swallowed the bitter tang of crow. "I just..." John sighed again. "I'm sorry."

Dean said nothing; did not even turn to acknowledge John had spoken.

But Sam – sweet, forgiving child that he was and had always been – immediately responded.

"It's okay, Dad," Sam quietly assured, blood continuing to flow from his split lip. "It scared you, too."

John exhaled a shaky breath and nodded. "Yeah," he agreed and smiled sadly; because he should be comforting his child, not his child comforting him. "I guess you're right, kiddo."

Sam nodded as well – he _knew_ he was right, had seen the expression on John's face when his father had first seen all the blood – and then directed his attention to Dean.

Dean stared back at Sam; was still pissed at John for running off at the mouth – _again_ – but knew his brother was asking him to let it go...so, he did.

"Apology accepted," Dean said and glanced over his shoulder at John, once again holding his father's gaze; silently communicating that while he was letting this go, he was only doing so for Sam and would not tolerate any further shit from John today.

John nodded his understanding and was unexpectedly proud of his oldest; because if anyone could keep John in line, it was Dean.

Dean turned back to Sam. "Alright, Sammy..." he sighed, eyes sweeping over his brother even as he spoke to John. "Dad's gonna go get your towel, and we're gonna get you dried off, sorted out, and patched up, okay?"

Sam nodded as John scanned the pool area. Seeing the motel bath towel slung over the back of the lounger Dean had been sitting on minutes before, John stood and crossed to the opposite end of the pool.

Dean waited for John to pass before standing himself – his legs and back beginning to cramp from his crouched position – and pulled another deck chair closer and sat, shuffling Sam to stand in front of him as he kept his hands on the kid's shoulders.

Dean's eyes scanned his brother, a mixture of relief and worry spreading through his chest. Because everything from the neck down seemed fine; Sam was wet and shivering – more from shock than from temperature – but otherwise was okay.

But from the neck up...

Dean sighed, aware that John was once again standing beside him; their father performing his own visual triage as he handed the towel to Dean.

Dean nodded his thanks and shook out the towel; quickly drying his own face, before lightly swiping the fabric over Sam's forehead and cheeks and then draping it over the kid's shoulders; briskly rubbing the towel over his brother's thin chest and skinny arms.

Sam shivered and coughed wetly.

Dean frowned, knowing Sam had not been under long enough to inhale a dangerous amount of water, but still...

"You okay?"

Which was a relative question, but Sam seemed to understand that Dean was asking about his breathing, not his injuries, and he nodded.

Dean nodded in return, remembering the last time Sam had the breath knocked out of him and how long it had taken the kid's breathing to even out; but still making a mental note to keep a check on the issue in case Sam continued to cough like that.

John sat beside Dean on the long pool lounger; his added weight causing the chair to squeak and dip closer to the concrete underneath it.

But Dean remained focused on Sam.

"I see you busted open your chin, kiddo," Dean commented, carefully tilting Sam's head back to examine the damage; gentle fingers smearing blood as they probed around the split skin. "Looks like stitches are in your future..." he reported and glanced at John for confirmation.

John nodded and leaned slightly forward as Dean still grasped Sam's chin. "Probably at least four or five, buddy."

Dean nodded – his thoughts exactly – and released his grip, allowing Sam to straighten his head, and then gently pressed one of the towel's corners against the steadily bleeding wound.

Sam swallowed a hiss of pain and blinked rapidly against the sting of tears. Because although he had gotten stitches before, he did not remember it being a pleasant experience; and this time, they were talking about stitches on his _face_.

Dean smiled encouragingly. "It's okay," he soothed, even as he could feel the warmth of blood seep through the fabric as he continued to hold the towel against Sam's chin.

Sam did not look convinced and sniffled pitifully.

Dean sighed – his heart breaking for his distressed little brother – and leaned slightly forward as though he was about to confide something to Sam. "Dude, even _I've_ never had chin stitches," he half whispered, his tone sounding envious. Dean glanced at John. "Dad, neither."

John nodded, immediately realizing that his oldest was using a different tactic to soothe their youngest; that Dean was trying to make something that was sure to be painful and a little scary seem cool and even desirable.

"Dean's right," John replied and then paused. "But chin stitches sound pretty badass, huh?"

"Because they _are_ badass," Dean affirmed and winked at his little brother as he eased the towel away from Sam's chin; keeping his expression neutral despite the amount of blood now staining the fabric's corner and simply lifting the opposite corner to cover the kid's injury.

Sam sighed shakily and offered a watery smile in appreciation for what he knew his family was trying to do and then wrinkled his nose at the pain from his split lip.

John's thumb lightly passed over the fresh trickle of blood. "Looks like you bit your lip pretty hard, kiddo..."

Dean narrowed his eyes, focusing on the center of his brother's bottom lip where the kid's top teeth had sunk into the tender flesh when Sam fell.

Sam's eyes widened at Dean's scrutiny. _More stitches?_

Dean shook his head. "No," he assured. "No stitches for that."

John nodded in agreement. "After we clean it up, it should be scabbed over by morning. You'll just have to be careful when you eat or drink or brush your teeth until it fully heals."

Sam held his father's gaze, believing John's words but still looking to Dean for confirmation.

Dean smiled. "Piece of cake, huh?" He paused and then winked at his little brother. "Or pie..."

Sam laughed softly and then coughed, his chin bobbing in Dean's grasp.

Dean frowned and gently rubbed his brother's chest. He really did not like Sam coughing like that. "You okay?"

Sam nodded.

There was a beat of silence.

"Did you hit your head when you fell?" Dean checked, even as he brushed back Sam's wet bangs; his thumb smoothing over his brother's forehead looking for bumps, bruises, or any trace of blood while his other hand continued to lightly press the towel to the kid's chin.

Sam sniffled and shook his head.

"You sure?" John pressed, running his own hand over the back of his child's skull.

Sam nodded. "I'm sure," he replied, his gaze flickering from John to Dean. "I just..." He swallowed. "I was coming up the ladder..." Sam looked intently at his brother. "...and I was being careful like you said, Dean...I promise..."

Dean smiled affectionately. _This kid..._

"I know you were, Sammy," Dean assured, uncovering his brother's chin to allow Sam to talk more easily.

Sam's attention darted to John, as if checking to see if their father believed him as well, before looking back at Dean.

Dean nodded his encouragement. "Then what?" he prompted, annoyed with himself that he had to ask; because if he had continued to watch Sam as the kid had climbed the ladder, he would have already known.

Sam swallowed. "Then I just..." He paused, tears beginning to well as the reality of what happened freshly dawned. "I mean...my foot kinda slipped on the top step, and then I just fell forward and then back and then..."

Sam shook his head, not wanting to cry like a baby – especially in front of John – but unable to stop himself. Because it had happened so fast and had _scared_ him. And now his chest was tight, and his chin and lip _hurt_, and they were talking about stitches and just...

Sam shook his head again and closed his eyes, tears slipping beneath his lashes.

John glanced at Dean, surprised by how emotional he felt at hearing Sam's story and how overwhelmed he was by the need to comfort his child. But John knew Sam was overwhelmed, too; that his youngest was in pain and was scared and upset and embarrassed.

And John had no idea what to do to make it better.

Dean quirked a smile, always amused how Sam could reduce a badass hunter like their dad into the proverbial deer in headlights; how even after all these years, John never seemed to know how to handle an emotional Sam; would completely freeze at the first sign of the kid's tears.

_He's okay_, Dean mouthed to John and then rubbed Sam's arms with the towel still draped over his brother's shoulders.

There was silence.

"Dad, I think we're going to sit out here for a few more minutes," Dean reported conversationally, even as he stared meaningfully at John. "If you want to grab my boots and go back to the room to get things ready..."

John nodded. "Sounds good," he agreed and lingered for a moment before gently tousling Sam's wet hair – his own gesture of comfort and love for his youngest – and then standing and crossing to retrieve Dean's boots from the far end of the deck.

Dean watched as John exited the pool area through the gate – which now hung a little crooked since John had kicked it open – and then listened to John's boots scuff the sidewalk as their father returned to their room.

The door did not close, though, and Dean knew John was keeping an ear out in case they needed him.

Dean smiled softly; was unexpectedly touched as he was reminded by that simple gesture that their father did care about them – just sucked at showing it sometimes – and that Sam had been right; John had been just as scared by what had happened as he and Sam had been.

Dean sighed, refocusing on his brother standing in front of him.

Sam's eyes were still closed; tears still silently streaking his pale cheeks; blood still oozing from the split lip and busted chin.

Dean shook his head, eyes narrowing at the bruising and swelling now becoming more prominent around both injury sites. "Ah, Sammy..."

Sam opened his eyes, releasing a fresh flood of tears but said nothing.

Dean nodded. "I know," he assured, because they had never needed words. "But you're okay now."

Sam's face scrunched, from emotion as well as pain, and he shook his head.

Dean smiled warmly. "Well, you _will_ be," he amended and then reached for his brother, pulling Sam closer until the kid's forehead rested on Dean's shoulder.

Sam's breath hitched on a sob – no longer trying to hold back his tears now that John was no longer part of his audience – and he buried his face into the crook of Dean's neck; the collar of Dean's t-shirt still saturated with pool water.

"It r-really scared me," Sam admitted quietly.

"I know," Dean whispered as Sam folded against him; practically sitting in Dean's lap as Dean continued to sit on the edge of the deck chair. "You scared the shit out of all of us..." Dean chuckled good-naturedly and rubbed his brother's back through the damp towel. "But you're okay."

Sam swallowed noisily and sniffled. "I-I'm...sorry."

Dean shook his head, wondering why his little brother always felt the need to apologize.

"Nothing to be sorry for, kiddo," Dean assured as he continued to hold his brother close. "Like I told Dad – shit happens, huh? You didn't plan to fall."

"N-no," Sam agreed, his breath hitching again as his hands bunched Dean's shirt; squeezing a trickle of water from the drenched fabric.

"Alright then," Dean replied, his tone implying the issue was settled.

They sat together in silence for several minutes; Dean's arms loosely wrapped around his brother; one hand rhythmically rubbing the kid's back while he patiently waited for Sam to pull himself together.

And when Sam exhaled a steadier breath and released his hold on Dean's shirt in favor of repeatedly tracing the outline of the amulet with his finger, Dean knew the storm had passed – at least for now.

"Hey..." Dean shrugged his shoulder and felt Sam's head lift with the motion. "You good?"

Sam sighed, the sound wobbling as it often did after crying, but did not respond beyond that. He instead continued to trace the amulet in a comfort-seeking gesture that was a step above actually grasping the gold charm but still spoke volumes to a big brother.

Dean narrowed his eyes. Something else was going on here. "Sammy..."

Sam remained quiet and then, "I don't want stitches."

Dean chuckled. "Yeah, well..."

"I'm serious, Dean," Sam replied, pushing back from his brother but not pulling away. "I don't want 'em."

"Maybe not," Dean conceded, staring at the gaping wound on his brother's chin. "But you need them, so – "

"No, I don't," Sam interrupted and shook his head for emphasis as he swiped the back of his hand under his chin to stop a fresh trickle of blood from sliding down his neck. "I _don't_."

Dean arched an eyebrow, wondering if Sam realized what he just did; and decided probably not, given the determined expression on the kid's face.

Without a word, Dean eased Sam back, so that the kid was once again standing in front of him, and grabbed his brother's arm – Dean's fingers actually overlapping his thumb because Sam's wrist was still so small in Dean's grasp – and held the kid's hand up, showing Sam the wide smear of blood. "You don't, huh?"

Sam blinked and stared at his hand.

"Exactly," Dean responded dryly, removing the towel from Sam's shoulders and wiping the blood from the kid's hand before lightly dabbing his brother's lip, then chin.

Sam remained still, watching Dean tend to him. "Stitches are gonna hurt," he whispered, as if Dean did not already know.

"A little," Dean agreed; folding the towel so that Sam would not see all of the blood splotched over the fabric. "But what's one of the things Dad always says? We do what's gotta be done, right?" he asked as he stood, tucking the towel under his arm.

Sam sighed but nodded, leaning into Dean's side as Dean wrapped his arm around Sam's shoulders.

"Plus..." Dean continued, steering his little brother toward the open gate. "Chin stitches are badass, remember?"

"Yeah, I guess," Sam replied softly as they exited the pool area. "But what if they leave a scar?"

"Chicks dig scars," Dean wisely informed his brother, allowing Sam to walk in front of him as they descended the steps of the deck; their wet bare feet leaving footprints on the sun-bleached wood.

Sam paused at the bottom of the stairs, shifting nervously as he stared up at Dean.

Dean arched an eyebrow as he came to stand beside his brother. "What?"

Sam's top teeth hovered over his bottom lip before he stopped himself from biting down and settled for licking his top lip instead; one nervous habit substituted for another. "Will you do them?"

"Do what? The stitches?" Dean sought to clarify and was not surprised when Sam nodded; because even though Sam trusted their father, the kid was not used to John tending to him.

"Will you?" Sam pressed and then attempted to seal the deal. "Please?"

Dean snorted – because the kid certainly knew how to play him – but shook his head. "I would do the stitches if Dad wasn't here. But Dad _is_ here," he reminded.

"So are you."

Dean rolled his eyes at his tenacious little brother. "Yeah," he drawled as he slung an arm over Sam's shoulders and began moving them toward the motel room.

"So..." Sam prompted hopefully, glancing up at Dean as they walked down the sidewalk.

Dean shook his head, unexpectedly irritated by Sam's persistence on this issue. "Jesus, Sam...let it go. It's not that big of a deal. Dad will do the stitches, and I'll hold your precious little hand," he remarked dryly. "Will that work for you, princess?"

Sam scowled and roughly shoved away from his brother. "You don't have to be a jerk, Dean," he retorted, even as his voice wavered and tears sprang to his eyes; annoyed yet hurt by Dean's comment.

Dean inwardly cringed, instantly regretting his words and his tone. Because he knew better than what he had just done; knew that Sam was injured and shaken and thus exceptionally touchy and not in the mood to be teased. And even if Sam was getting on Dean's nerves, his little brother was not harping on the issue of who was applying stitches to purposefully annoy Dean; it was just the kid's way of dealing with his anxiety.

And Dean knew that.

But in a moment of aggravation, Dean's attempt to end the issue with his usual sarcasm had only managed to upset his already fragile little brother. And to make matters worse, now Sam was staring at Dean as if Dean had somehow betrayed him – not by refusing to do the stitches but by making light of a situation that was serious to Sam.

Dean sighed, freshly annoyed with himself.

"Sam..."

"Never mind," Sam snapped, wincing before lightly touching his lip; fresh blood welling as a result from how intensely he had flung those two words.

Dean frowned – both at the blood and at how upset Sam sounded – and reached toward his brother. "Sammy..."

Sam shrugged away from Dean's touch. "I'm fine," he said, his expression and tone indicating otherwise. "Just..." He shook his head, looking like he was going to cry again; like _Dean_ was going to make him cry again.

And that was unacceptable.

"Sam..." Dean tried once more.

Sam blinked and looked away. "Just never mind," he whispered and turned his back to Dean, walking down the sidewalk.

And Dean watched him go, feeling even shittier than he had seconds before; never ceasing to be amazed at how quickly a situation could deteriorate all because of poorly chosen words.

* * *

><p><em><strong>TBC <strong>_

_**This is another oneshot that ended up being too long, so it became a "three shot". Next chapter will be posted on Wednesday or Thursday.**_


	2. Chapter 2

Dean sighed – the volume and force with which he did so indicating his level of frustration with himself – and followed behind Sam, entering the motel room mere seconds after his brother in time to see the bathroom door close.

John – already changed into dry clothes – stood between the beds; his workstation prepared with the first aid and suture kits spread out on the bedside table; the pillows propped against the headboard awaiting his patient; and the corner floor lamp pulled closer to the bed with its shade tilted to provide more direct light.

John stared at the closed bathroom door, knowing a bad sign when he saw one.

His youngest had not verbally responded when John had called his name as the kid had entered the room; had glanced at John, obviously upset, and then had grabbed his duffel and had sought refuge in the one place that usually provided privacy when you were sharing a motel room with two other people – the bathroom.

And since Dean was not with Sam, that implied Dean was the reason Sam was upset.

Which meant the afternoon just got a whole lot more interesting; as if Sam's fall and its aftermath was not already enough...

John sighed and then looked over his shoulder as Dean burst through the open door and then slammed it behind him.

John tilted his head thoughtfully and gave his oldest a once-over as Dean stormed around the room; taking in the clenched jaw and tense shoulders; the narrowed eyes and mouth pressed into a hard line.

John sighed again. "Do I even want to know what this is about?"

"No," Dean replied curtly, reaching under his arm and throwing the blood-stained towel to the floor as he crossed to the table on the far side of the room.

John nodded; he thought as much.

But while John did not know the details of what had happened since he had left his sons at the pool – and probably never would – it was obvious Sam was now upset over more than just his fall. And Dean was silently fuming in the way he did when he had done something he knew he should not have and was pissed at himself because of it.

John cleared his throat. "Dean..."

Dean shook his head warningly – _not now, Dad_ – and barely spared John a glance as he snatched his duffel from the corner table – just as Sam had done seconds before – and then grabbed his boots from beside the chair before barging into the bathroom; no knock, no warning, no nothing.

John arched an eyebrow. So it _was_ as bad as he thought; Dean having apparently screwed up with his little brother – at least in Dean's mind – to the point that he was not waiting for Sam's permission to make it right.

But if Sam was startled by his brother's intrusion, he made no sound of it.

John caught a brief glimpse of Sam; his youngest standing in front of the sink, still shirtless but already changed from his wet bathing suit into a pair of jeans.

And then the door closed again.

When several seconds passed in silence – no muffled voices, no vague sounds of movement from within the bathroom – John narrowed his eyes; unsure if his boys were having one of their _I'm-pissed-at-you_ stare-offs or if they were doing their _we're-having-a-meaningful-conversation-without-ever-saying-a-word _thing.

Given the events of the past few seconds, either scenario was a good choice.

But the continued silence offered no clues.

"Well..." John sighed to the empty room and rubbed the back of his neck; hand slipping beneath the collar of his black t-shirt as his eyes scanned over the bed and the bedside table.

Everything was set up and ready to go, leaving nothing to do but wait.

And John hated waiting.

He sighed again and turned to the opposite bed, grabbing his journal from where he had tossed it on the mattress upon entry to the room, and crossed to the table in the corner.

John paused at the bathroom door, still hearing nothing – his children apparently telepathic ninjas – and then sank into one of the chairs, setting his journal on the table and flipping it open to review his notes from his conversation with Bobby earlier.

Hearing the faint creak of the wooden chair in the main room, Dean glanced at the bathroom door; knowing John was just on the other side; that their father knew what was going on and was waiting them out.

The realization was strangely comforting.

Dean glanced back at his brother.

Sam had not moved since Dean had entered the bathroom; was still standing in front of the sink, arms by his side, eyes wet and wide as he took in his own reflection; skin pale but cheeks flushed from a mixture of sun and tears; bottom lip oozing blood, which trickled down over the already dried blood to mix with the blood sluggishly flowing from the kid's busted chin.

Sam's gaze was fixated on the bottom half of his face; his hand slowly reaching up to wipe at the blood that was slipping down his neck and even over his right collarbone.

Not turning around, Sam's eyes darted to Dean's reflection in the mirror; his expression a mixture of renewed alarm and fear. Because knowing you were bleeding and having an idea that it was probably a lot of blood was quite different from actually seeing it yourself.

Still standing behind Sam, Dean dropped his boots and duffel to the floor and reached for his brother, slowly turning the kid away from the mirror.

Sam did not resist and stared up at Dean; his expression as open and trusting as it usually was; his hurt feelings caused by Dean's words forgotten in the midst of his renewed distress over his injuries and his confidence that Dean could somehow make it better.

Sam blinked rapidly. _Dean..._

Dean cupped the back of Sam's head, gently squeezing his brother's neck. _You're okay._

Sam held up his blood-stained hand as proof to the contrary and continued to blink against fresh tears.

Dean shook his head – _it's not as bad as it looks_ – and wiped the blood from Sam's fingers with the hem of his own wet shirt before shuffling Sam to sit on the closed toilet seat.

Sam watched as Dean reached above him, taking a washcloth from the shelf on the wall and running it under the faucet; wringing out the excess water in the sink before crouching in front of him.

Sam's hands rested on his thighs, nervously bunching the fabric of his jeans.

Dean smiled softly. _Relax..._

Sam nodded and swallowed, closing his eyes as Dean began to gently clean away the blood coating Sam's mouth and chin.

After a couple minutes, Sam flinched, his eyes snapping open. _Ow!_

Dean winced in sympathy – _sorry_ – and narrowed his eyes to further inspect the space between Sam's chin and bottom lip.

Because now that the majority of blood was gone, Dean could see there was a separate cluster of small cuts in that area; a classic skin-against-concrete scrape that was not unexpected given Sam's fall but had certainly been unnoticeable a few minutes ago.

Sam arched an eyebrow. _What?_

Dean shook his head. _No big deal._

Sam sniffled and nodded, allowing Dean to continue to dab the fabric over the newly discovered scratches.

A few seconds later, Dean removed the washcloth, folding it to reveal a clean side, and then wiped Sam's neck and chest, clearing away a familiar mixture of fresh and dried blood.

Sam sat still as Dean completed his task; accustomed to his brother taking care of him when he was sick or injured but realizing this was also an apology in action; a confirmation that Dean was sorry for upsetting him earlier and a reminder that Dean would never intentionally hurt him or make him cry.

Sam blinked as Dean stood and rinsed the washcloth in the sink.

"My face hurts," Sam commented; all at once aware of the throbbing in his lip and chin and even along his jawline.

Dean glanced over his shoulder, ridiculously happy to hear his little brother's voice; even if Sam did sound hoarse from the emotion and exhaustion caused by the afternoon's events.

"Bet so," Dean agreed, his eyes sweeping over the bruising that was now especially prominent on Sam's pale, blood-free skin. He dropped the washcloth on the counter and then motioned his brother to join him at the sink as the water continued to flow. "There's dirt and concrete particles embedded in your chin."

Sam wrinkled his nose – that did not sound good – but nodded his understanding that Dean wanted to flush the wound before it was stitched up. "Yeah, okay," he sighed as he stood and then winced for his efforts, realizing his entire body hurt.

Dean narrowed his eyes, watching as his brother slowly crossed the few steps to the sink. "Sore, huh?"

"Kinda," Sam admitted.

Dean nodded. "You jarred yourself pretty good when you fell, Sammy," he reminded, squeezing Sam's shoulder when the kid was close enough to touch; then paused, realizing Sam's breaths were more even, and his brother had not coughed in a while.

Sam watched Dean watch him and then smiled knowingly. "It's better," he assured quietly. "My chest is still kinda tight, but it's better."

"I wasn't worried," Dean said even as he smiled.

Sam laughed. _Yeah, right._

Dean's smile lingered as he shifted to the side and pulled Sam closer to the counter; easing his brother to lean over the sink before cupping his hand under the water and directing the flow from the faucet over the kid's chin.

Sam hissed sharply and squirmed as the rush of cold water hit his sensitive, split skin.

"Easy," Dean soothed, placing his other hand on Sam's bare back. "Almost done..."

Sam's hands fisted on the counter as he willed himself to hold still.

And a few seconds later, it was over; Dean was shutting off the water and pulling the hand towel from the looped bar mounted beside the sink; gently cupping Sam's chin with the fabric before lifting him up and back.

Sam stared up at Dean as his brother continued to apply light pressure over the bottom half of his face; vaguely aware that while it was becoming hot and stuffy in the small bathroom, the tile floor was still cold against his bare feet.

"Okay..." Dean sighed, lowering his hand and peering at Sam's chin. The wound was moist with a mixture of water and blood, but the edges of separated skin were finally clean; all traces of debris flushed away.

Sam blinked at his brother expectantly.

"Looks good," Dean reported, gaze lingering on the busted chin before shifting up to Sam's mouth. "And it looks like your lip is starting to clot, too."

Sam nodded.

Dean straightened to his full height while guiding Sam's hand to hold the towel in place. "Your chin is still bleeding a little, though, so keep pressure on it while I change clothes. Then, we'll stitch you up, and you'll be set."

Sam nodded again but looked away, feeling strangely uncomfortable that the discussion had turned to stitches again; especially since that was the topic that had derailed their conversation on the sidewalk.

Dean quirked a smile, knowing what his brother was thinking. "Hey..."

Sam hesitated but glanced back at Dean.

Dean paused, knowing he would regret this offer later but deciding it was worth it.

Because even though Dean knew his little brother had already forgiven him for what happened earlier – had seen the absolution reflected in the kid's eyes as Dean had cleaned him up – Sam still deserved an apology and would instantly recognize the offer as such.

Dean cleared his throat and then sighed. This was it. "How 'bout when we head out later, shotgun gets to pick music?"

There was a beat of stunned silence.

Sam tilted his head. "What?"

Dean smiled. "You heard me."

And Dean was right; Sam had heard "I'm sorry" loud and clear.

"Really?" Sam asked; his voice muffled by the towel he continued to hold it against his chin but his excited tone unmistakable.

"Really," Dean affirmed, already knowing what song he would have to endure back-to-back at least ten times on the drive out of town.

Sam paused. "But you hid the tape," he pointed out; his tone more reminding than accusatory.

Dean chuckled. He liked Queen as much as anyone, but there were only so many times a guy could listen to "Fat-Bottomed Girls" over and over before it started to seem like cruel and unusual punishment.

"Dean..." Sam prompted.

"Yeah, I know," Dean admitted. "But if I hid it, then I know where it is, right?"

Sam nodded and lowered the towel, beaming up at his brother. "This is gonna be so awesome!"

"Yeah, we'll see..." Dean remarked dryly even as he affectionately brushed Sam's bangs away from his eyes.

Because while Dean was sure "awesome" was not the word he would use to describe the experience that awaited him in the car later, it was definitely the term he would apply to how it felt to have Sam smile at him like that; to feel like he and his little brother were back on the same page again.

Sam smiled impossibly wider and then winced as the expression caused his split lip to stretch.

Dean frowned and reached for the towel Sam held, dabbing at the fresh blood. "Dude, I'm glad you're happy." He once again guided his brother's hand to cover the fabric and hold it against his mouth and chin. "But be careful, huh?"

Sam nodded as Dean reached around him, grabbing Sam's duffel from the floor beside the toilet and setting it on the counter before pulling out a clean shirt.

"Put this on."

Sam shook his head. "I might get blood on it."

Dean shrugged. "Then we'll wash it." He rolled the hem of the olive green shirt up to the collar and then stretched it wide. "Dad's got the air conditioning blasting out there..." he further explained and motioned for Sam to once again lower the towel from his face.

"Yeah, okay," Sam sighed as Dean slipped the shirt over his head and then took the towel so Sam could put his arms through the sleeves.

They stood in companionable silence for a few seconds – Dean giving Sam a once-over – before Dean nodded his approval and glanced over his shoulder. "Ready?"

Sam nodded.

"Good," Dean praised, giving the towel back to Sam before opening the bathroom door and leaning into the main room to see John sitting at the table, flipping through his journal. "Hey, Dad..."

John glanced up; relieved the waiting was over but not surprised to see his oldest standing there. When he had finally heard the boys start moving around in the bathroom a few minutes ago, and then had heard them talking a few minutes after that, John had known this moment was next.

Because Dean was raised as a soldier and often handled things as such, whether he realized it or not; securing the area – the bathroom; assessing the situation – a potential full-out meltdown from an overwhelmed little brother with injuries and hurt feelings; neutralizing the threat – by a combination of words and actions only Dean could balance; and then calling for backup – which was usually John's cue.

"Dad?"

John blinked, realizing Dean was no longer lingering in the bathroom's doorway but was fully in the main room with Sam standing beside him.

John's attention rested on his youngest; startled by how incredibly young and small Sam looked standing there with a towel pressed to his face. No wonder most strangers assumed the kid was ten-years old, instead of 12.

Sam shifted under John's scrutiny and glanced up at Dean.

Dean smiled encouragingly – _it's okay_ – and hoped this was not a mistake; that he could leave Sam with John long enough for him to finally change out of his wet clothes and not have to worry about their father saying or doing something that would upset Sam all over again.

Dean sighed. "I'm gonna change real quick," he reported, his gaze flickering from John to Sam and then back to John. "Can Sam hang out with you for a minute?"

John frowned slightly, unexpectedly saddened that Dean sounded like he was politely asking a favor from a stranger.

_Would you mind watching my kid? I won't be long._

Which was probably how Dean felt, but still...

"Dad?"

John blinked at the sound of Dean's voice and refocused on his boys.

Dean narrowed his eyes in annoyance at John. "Can – "

"I heard you," John interrupted and smiled his apology for his delay in answering. "And of course he can."

Dean paused before nodding. "Be right back," he assured Sam with a squeeze to his brother's shoulder and then disappeared behind the bathroom's door.

Sam stood motionless; his hand continuing to hold the white towel over his chin; his eyes impossibly large under his fringe of damp bangs as he glanced at the bed and bedside table and then stared at John.

John tracked his son's gaze; knowing that although Sam would put on a brave face when it was time, the kid was still nervous about the impending stitches.

Sam shifted where he stood, glancing back at the bed again and then over his shoulder at the bathroom door; unconsciously seeking reassurance from his brother even if Dean was not in the room.

John watched his youngest; always pleased that Sam knew he could rely on Dean but overwhelmed with the need to ease his child's anxiety himself; to distract and soothe.

"You know..." John began conversationally, and saw Sam focus on him as he closed his journal and leaned back in his chair. "Did I ever tell you about the time your mother had to stitch my hand?"

Sam's eyes widened – because John rarely talked about their mom – and shook his head.

"Didn't think so," John commented. "But believe it or not, your old man used to go fishing..." – which seemed like a lifetime ago – "...and sometimes your mom would go with me. And one day, I was trying to untangle her line and lost my grip on the hook and..."

Sam wrinkled his nose as John demonstrated how the hook had jerked upwards and ripped open his right palm.

"Hurt like a sonuvabitch," John admitted, resisting the urge to shudder even now, years after the injury. "But your mom, she was awesome."

Sam readily nodded; he had never doubted that.

"She didn't freak out, like you might expect a girl would do when faced with all that blood," John reported proudly. "Just reached right for the first aid kit she always carried in her bag. She leaned me up; declared it needed stitches; and then pulled out a suture kit."

Sam's eyes widened.

John nodded. "I know," he chuckled.

Because he had always teased Mary about being the world's most kick-ass Girl Scout; always prepared. But as John had become immersed in the life of a hunter after she had died, he had realized that description – _hunter_ – actually fit better; explained Mary's heightened sense of danger, her somewhat unusual set of skills, and the things she never left home without.

The realization had initially been amusing to John – because there was no way Mary could have ever been a hunter. But as the years had gone by, John was not so sure. He had never allowed himself to dwell on it too much because it unnerved him; the thought of his wife having had a secret life.

But John was a hunter now, too; knew how to read people and situations. And as much as he loved Mary, too many details were left unexplained; too many things did not add up when examined in retrospect. While he was still unsure if Mary had been a hunter, John knew without a doubt that she had not told him everything about herself or her family.

And that had...

John blinked, suddenly aware that Sam had come closer and was staring at him expectantly.

John shook himself and smiled. "Anyway..." he continued. "She stitched my hand just like a pro. And while I've gotten better at stitching over the years – both stitching myself and others – I would say she was the first to show me how."

John held out his right hand – palm up – and Sam crossed the remaining few steps to the table until he was standing in front of John; his eyes scanning the faint, jagged scar he had always known was there but had assumed was from a hunting injury. The revelation that it was the result of a fishing injury – something so incredibly _normal_ – somehow made Sam sad; proof there had been life before hunting...and he had missed it.

Sam's attention flickered up to his father's face.

John smiled warmly; his right hand reaching to pull Sam closer while the other lowered Sam's hand from his chin. "Let me see..."

Sam waited patiently as his father leaned slightly forward.

John's eyes narrowed as he inspected the clotted split lip and barely bleeding busted chin. "Looks much better than the last time I saw it," he remarked and winked at his youngest as he gently pressed the towel back over Sam's face; pleased that Sam seemed much less tense than before.

Sam nodded in agreement, his hands now resting on John's thighs as he continued to stand in front of his father.

There was a beat of silence.

John tilted his head dramatically as though confused. "Did you lose your voice?"

Sam smiled and shook his head; the towel marginally moving across his face as he did so.

John narrowed his eyes. "You sure? Maybe you left it out at the pool, 'cause I haven't heard you say anything since you came in the room, and I know how much you love to talk."

"Daaaad," Sam responded, still smiling; his voice muffled; his chin dipping in John's grasp as he said the word; his tone indicating he thought John was being silly.

Which was a good call, because that was exactly what John was doing; a father being silly to further soothe his son's nerves; to make his son smile.

"Oh, good. There it is," John replied; his voice overly relieved. "For a minute there..."

Sam laughed – the sound tired but genuine – and rolled his eyes good-naturedly.

John smiled and affectionately squeezed Sam's shoulder as the bathroom door opened, revealing Dean.

Dean had changed into jeans and a faded Led Zeppelin shirt; was wearing his boots; and was holding both his and Sam's duffels as he stood in the doorway. "What's so funny?" he demanded lightly, crossing to the corner to join his father and brother; eyes darting between both as he set the duffels on the table.

"I am," John responded seriously.

Sam laughed again and smiled up at Dean, reassuring his brother he was okay.

Dean nodded. "Oh, yeah. You're a riot, Dad," he remarked dryly even as he also smiled.

John chuckled, and then there was silence; the levity of the moment slowly draining – like air from a balloon – until the smiles deflated; each Winchester dreading in his own way what came next.

The widely discussed chin stitches.

* * *

><p><em><strong>TBC - Slight change in posting plans. One more chapter to go...<strong>_


	3. Chapter 3

Dean sighed. "Alright, Sammy. Let's do this, huh?"

Sam swallowed but said nothing.

"Sounds good," John agreed, guiding Sam's hand to hold the towel in place over his chin, and then glanced from his youngest to his oldest. "You boys get situated while I wash up."

Dean nodded as John stood and entered the bathroom.

A few seconds later, the water turned on, and Dean knew John would linger for as long as he thought it would take Dean to talk Sam into what had to be done.

"You know Dad's like a friggin' surgeon," Dean commented casually, brushing Sam's bangs from his forehead; not surprised to feel an increased degree of warmth since Sam always ran a low-grade fever when he was injured, stressed, and tired.

"I know," Sam answered quietly.

"And you know this is gonna be over like _that..._" Dean snapped his fingers for emphasis.

Sam looked doubtful.

Dean smiled as he crossed to the bedside table and rummaged around in the first aid kit until he found the small bottle of Tylenol. "Hey, Dad..."

John appeared in the bathroom's doorway, drying his hands and noticing what Dean held in his. "Water?"

"Please."

John nodded and ducked back into the bathroom.

Sam continued to stand in the corner by the table. The towel was no longer pressed against his chin but was being nervously twisted in his hands as he stared across the room at Dean.

Dean opened his mouth to call his brother over but stopped as John exited the bathroom again; one hand holding a stout glass of water and the other settling in the center of Sam's back, guiding his youngest toward the bed.

Dean smiled – always pleased when he and his dad worked seamlessly as a team, whether they were hunting or taking care of Sam – and palmed two pills, holding them out as Sam approached.

Sam sighed but exchanged the wadded, blood-stained towel for the medicine and then accepted the water from John.

John turned to the bedside table, checking his supplies before readjusting the tilted shade on the floor lamp to provide more light.

Dean nodded his approval as he watched his brother swallow the pills and then sat on the bed, rearranging the pillows against the headboard before leaning back and further situating himself.

Sam frowned at Dean over the top of the glass as he swallowed the last pill. "What are you doing?"

"What does it look like?" Dean asked and then took the glass from Sam, setting it on the bedside table before pulling Sam down to sit on the edge of the mattress.

Sam stared at his brother, thoroughly confused. "Dean..."

"Shut up and lean back," Dean instructed, holding Sam's gaze.

Sam narrowed his eyes, briefly wondering if Dean was somehow mocking him again or setting him up for relentless teasing later. But there was nothing except sincerity and concern in Dean's expression. He genuinely wanted to do whatever would help Sam endure the stitches and somehow knew – even before Sam did – that this was just what Sam needed.

Sam glanced at John, wondering if their dad would think he was a baby if he literally leaned against his big brother while he got stitched up. But there was no judgment in John's expression; only patience and understanding.

Sam looked back at Dean and gave a shy, lopsided smile. _Thanks._

Dean returned the smile and reached for his brother – easing Sam back until the kid was resting against him, his legs on either side of his little brother – and then nodded at John.

John sighed, steeling himself for what was not going to be pleasant for any of them, and tore open two alcohol wipes. "Sam..." he began, his hand hovering over his son's chin. "This is gonna hurt – "

"Like a sonuvabitch?" Sam finished, repeating John's description from earlier and startling a laugh out of his father and brother.

"Nice language, Sammy," Dean commented dryly. "However did that word end up in your vocabulary?" he asked primly and then laughed again.

John chuckled, knowing he should probably scold his 12-year old for swearing; but truthfully, Sam's choice of words was a minor offense considering what the kid heard from the older two Winchesters on a daily basis.

Sam's cheeks tinged pink. "Sorry."

John smiled and shrugged. "The truth's the truth," he stated matter-of-factly.

Sam wrinkled his nose.

"Ready?" John asked.

Sam swallowed and nodded; his eyes squinting as the cool, wet alcohol wipe made contact with his chin; burning and stinging as John gently cleaned around the wound with one wipe and then the other.

Satisfied the area was disinfected, John sighed and tossed the used wipes into the trashcan beside the bedside table before reaching for the sutures.

Sam watched as John ripped open the package and removed the coarse black thread; his fingers smoothing the bundle into a straight line and then tying one end onto the curved cutting needle.

Sam shifted nervously; his back against Dean's chest.

Dean wrapped his arm around his brother; his hand splayed against Sam's sternum and frowned as he felt the kid's heart hammering. "It's okay," he quietly assured.

Sam sighed shakily. That was easy for Dean to say.

John smiled sympathetically; slipping his thumb and ring finger through the holes of the hemostat – which always reminded Sam of scissors – and opened the instrument, grasping the middle of the needle within its blunt tip.

John then reached for the forceps – which Sam always thought was a fancy word for "tweezers" – and held it like a writing utensil between his thumb and forefinger in his other hand.

Sam swallowed; his eyes wide as he stared up at John. This was it.

"Alright..." John sighed, once again standing over his youngest and inspecting Sam's chin. "The wound looks clean enough to do continuous sutures, and I'm going to do them as fast as I can. But you need to try to stay still, okay?"

Sam nodded his understanding but not his agreement; because he honestly did not know if he could remain motionless while someone – even if that someone was his dad – was passing a needle and thread through his _face_.

"We'll be still," Dean assured, answering in plural as he often did when Sam was involved; because anything that affected Sam affected Dean as well, and vice versa.

Sam swallowed, suddenly feeling like he was going to throw up.

John smiled encouragingly. "It's okay. Just lean your head back a little," he instructed and was not surprised when Sam hesitated. "Sam..."

But it was Dean that responded to the order; sweeping his hand under Sam's bangs and tilting the kid's head back; then holding his hand on Sam's forehead to maintain the position and further steady his brother.

"Alright..." John held Dean's gaze, ensuring his oldest was ready for the next step, and then focused back on Sam. "Here we go..." he warned.

Sam swallowed again and felt Dean tighten his hold around him.

John narrowed his eyes in concentration as he used the forceps to gently squeeze the split skin, causing the edges to meet, and then pierced the outside edge with the curved cutting needle.

Sam gasped and squeezed his eyes shut; his hands bunching the denim of his brother's jeans.

"Easy," Dean soothed, continuing to hold Sam's head back while the thumb of his other hand rhythmically rubbed the kid's chest.

"You're doing good, Sam," John praised, even though he had not yet completed the first stitch.

Sam sniffled and pressed his lips together to prevent himself from making another sound, only to remember too late that his bottom lip was injured as well. He cried out at the painful reminder and would have jerked if Dean had not held him still.

"Whoa..." Dean commented and frowned up at John accusingly before realizing the problem – Sam had accidently opened his split lip again; fresh blood beginning to well. "Ah, Sammy..." he sighed, glancing at the first aid kit on the bedside table and reaching for a couple squares of gauze.

Sam made a distressed sound; his eyes still closed but his hand moving toward his face.

"Stop," Dean gently admonished, blocking Sam's hand. "Just relax and be still. I got this."

John quirked a smile and patiently held his position – needle, thread, and hemostat in one hand, forceps in the other – while Dean tended to his brother.

Dean glanced at his father before dabbing at the blood on Sam's bottom lip and then carefully pressed the gauze in place.

Sam's fingers twitched as they continued to grip Dean's jeans.

"I know it's sore. But just a couple more seconds..." Dean soothed even as he counted silently and then peeled the gauze back to check for fresh blood.

Seeing none, Dean tossed the stained gauze into the trashcan and resumed his hold on his brother; hand lighting resting on Sam's chest.

"Ready?" John asked, staring at Dean.

"We were born ready," Dean replied confidently and patted his brother's chest. "Ain't that right, Sammy?"

Sam made a noncommittal noise. Because the only thing he was ready for was for this to be over.

John nodded and refocused on the task at hand; continuing to lean over his youngest as he once again pierced the outside edge of Sam's split skin and pulled it toward the opposite edge.

Sam flinched and pressed his head hard into Dean's shoulder.

Dean winced at his brother's pain, his arm tightening around Sam's chest; communicating comfort and lending strength.

John completed stitch #2 and felt his heart constrict at the sight of Sam's face scrunched in pain; his eyes squeezed shut; his jaw bruised; his bottom lip red, swollen, and quivering.

"Dad..."

John's attention flickered up to his oldest.

"How 'bout you tell us what you're doing on the next stitch?" Dean suggested casually, even as he stared meaningfully at John and then glanced down at Sam.

John nodded, realizing he was being extended an invitation to distract their youngest; that while most patients probably would not want to hear about how their skin was being sewn back together, Sam's analytical mind would eagerly latch onto such information; would probably even store it for future use.

"Dad..." Dean prompted, shifting slightly under Sam's weight.

"Good idea," John agreed, his tone just as casual as Dean's had been, and then paused, refocusing on Sam's chin. "Okay, well...you should start from the outside edge and make sure the needle tip enters the tissues perpendicular to the skin," John advised, doing just that. "The needle will go through the epidermis – the top layer of skin – and then..."

Sam made a guttural sound as his hands gripped the fabric of Dean's jeans impossibly tighter.

Dean rubbed Sam's chest. _Easy._

John paused. "And then once the needle tip has penetrated through the top layer of the skin," he continued, squinting as he maneuvered the hemostat, "you should twist your wrist so that the needle passes through the subcutaneous tissue and then comes out into the wound before you then enter the subcutaneous tissue on the opposite side, and come out the epidermis above."

Sam whimpered as John completed stitch #3 and then immediately swallowed, as if he had not meant for that sound to be heard.

John froze, glancing at Sam and then at Dean.

"I know, Sammy," Dean soothed, pressing his cheek against Sam's temple; feeling the heat of a slight fever and the dampness of drying hair. "But you're doing good, kiddo. Just a couple more..."

Sam made a vague sound of acknowledgment; his eyes still closed as silent tears slipped through his lashes; his breaths harsh; his body a rigid rod of tension as he braced for stitch #4.

Dean sighed – hating this as much as Sam did – and thumbed the tears from Sam's cheeks before readjusting his hold on his brother; smoothing away Sam's bangs as he continued to tilt the kid's head back.

John waited for Dean to nod and then began the next stitch, pleased with how evenly the split skin was coming together despite the amount of inflammation and swelling.

Dean watched as John once again maneuvered the hemostat and pierced the outside edge of Sam's skin with the curved needle, twisting his wrist ever-so-slightly before guiding the needle through the wound over to the opposite side; the thread of the suture gliding through the skin and joining both edges together.

Sam's breath hitched as he dug the back of his head into Dean's collarbone.

Dean winced at the flare of pain in his shoulder. "Easy, Sam. Just one more..."

"Maybe two," John softly corrected, inwardly cringing as Dean cut his eyes at him. "I know I said only five, but I think you need an extra stitch, Sam."

Sam moaned; either from pain or frustration, John could not tell.

But as usual, Dean was already taking care of it.

"It's okay, Sammy," Dean soothed, rubbing Sam's chest. "Half a dozen stitches sounds way more badass than 'only five', don't 'cha think?"

Sam did not respond; his hands cramping from gripping the denim of Dean's jeans so tightly.

Dean continued to rub Sam's chest and then nodded at John; watching their father repeat the familiar routine – pierce, pull across, pierce, pull tight.

"Want to know why you twist your wrist like that after the needle penetrates the skin?" John asked as he completed the fifth stitch.

Dean arched an eyebrow at the randomness of the question. "Um...sure."

John began the sixth stitch. "Because when you do that, it helps to ensure that the edges of skin will evert – which means you get the underlying dermis from both sides of the wound to touch – and that will ensure the wound heals fully and properly."

Dean nodded. He had heard this lesson before and had actually done these steps himself the few times John had allowed him to stitch a wound. But he was unexpectedly captivated hearing John explain the procedure again while demonstrating; was reminded of how right he had been earlier when he had assured Sam that John was practically a surgeon; how lucky they were to have a dad who knew so much about so many different things and was constantly teaching them.

Dean blinked as Sam began to squirm against him, the relentless pain making his little brother restless.

"Be still, Sammy," Dean whispered; his splayed hand lightly pressing against Sam's chest as John completed the last stitch. "Almost done..."

"Just have to tie these off, buddy. Hang on..." John added, pulling the suture through the skin so that just a few centimeters of the thread was left out. He then removed the needle from the hemostat and wrapped the suture that was still attached to the needle around the hemostat's tip before grabbing the short, unattached end of the suture and pulling it through the loop, tying a knot.

"Only two more knots..." Dean reported even as he watched John tie them.

John then dropped the forceps into the suture kit and exchanged the hemostat for small scissors. A few seconds later, the ends of the thread were cut, leaving a neat row of tight, precise stitches secured with three flat knots.

"Done," John declared, tossing the scissors on the bedside table and standing to his full height; stretching muscles that had long since cramped from stooping over his youngest to apply the sutures.

"Hear that, Sammy?" Dean asked, carding his fingers through Sam's hair as he released his hold on the kid's forehead.

Sam sighed shakily and slowly opened his eyes, blinking at the light that continued to shine directly in his face.

Noticing Sam squint, John quickly tilted the lamp's shade back in place and moved it further in the corner.

"How do they feel?" John checked, once again peering at the stitches.

Sam swallowed; his hands beginning to release their hold on his brother's jeans; his fingers sore from the intensity of their grip. "Hurts," he admitted quietly.

John nodded. "I know, kiddo."

"When do they come out?" Sam asked, clearly eager for that day already.

John chuckled. "It depends, but stitches usually stay in for seven to ten days."

Sam sighed. Seven to ten days seemed like a lifetime to a 12-year old. "Will it hurt?"

"It shouldn't," Dean soothed, shifting under his brother's weight as Sam continued to lean against his chest. "Might feel like a small pinch or something, but that's it."

John nodded. "But don't worry about that now," he advised. "Your chin should start feeling better in a couple days as the swelling goes down, and the wound starts to fully heal." His fingers gently probed the swollen flesh and then skimmed the stitches. "Plus, some of this bruising will start to fade," John added; carefully grasping Sam's chin with the tips of his fingers and turning his son's face from side to side; examining the bluish-purple splotches along the kid's jawline.

Dean watched as John examined Sam; his little brother motionless against him, holding himself still while John continued his inspection.

"And you'll need to be careful with this," John reminded as he released Sam's chin and ghosted his thumb over the kid's freshly clotted bottom lip.

Sam nodded and was startled when his father suddenly looked him directly in the eye.

"I'm proud of you," John said simply but held Sam's gaze, making sure his youngest knew the depth of those four words; knew he was serious; knew just _how_ proud. "I've seen grown men..._hunters..._who did not tolerate stitches as well as you just did with no local anesthetic. And I'm damn proud of you, kiddo."

Dean smiled and nodded; both in agreement with their father's words and in silent praise that John had realized Sam needed to hear them.

Sam felt stunned; staring at John for a moment before smiling shyly. "Thanks, Dad."

John smiled in return; his expression warm and genuine as he lightly tousled Sam's hair and then shifted his focus to Dean; his oldest still propped against the headboard while he held his brother. "I'm going to wash up and clean up. Then we'll get packed and head out. I want to be on the road in less than ten minutes."

"Yes, sir," Dean replied, knowing the responsibility of Sam was being passed back to him; that John expected Dean to finish tending to his little brother and then get the kid – and their duffels – loaded in the Impala.

John held Dean's gaze and then turned to the bedside table, tossing the used suture kit into the trashcan before crossing to the bathroom to wash up.

Sam watched John disappear behind the half-closed door but remained motionless; seeming content to continue to rest against Dean.

Dean felt Sam lean more heavily into his chest as the kid finally began to fully relax; shoulders drooping as tension melted away; his small hands no longer bunching denim; his head slightly lolling into the hollow created by Dean's neck and shoulder.

Sam sighed – a sound of relief – and closed his eyes.

Dean smiled affectionately and briefly buried his face into Sam's hair, smelling sun and chlorine as he, too, closed his eyes; knowing something much worse than a split lip and busted chin could have happened earlier when Sam fell and feeling incredibly thankful that his little brother was okay.

The water in the bathroom shut off, and Dean opened his eyes; sighing his reluctance to move. He could tell Sam was no longer just resting but was now seconds away from being asleep. And while Dean would have been fine with continuing to sit on the bed and hold his brother while the kid slept, that was not an option.

Now that Sam was stitched up, John's focus was already shifting back to hunting, and their dad was serious when he said he wanted to be on the road in less than ten minutes.

The bathroom door fully opened, and John paused in the doorway; his eyes narrowing in concern since his sons had not moved from where he had left them a few minutes ago.

"He's okay," Dean quietly assured. "Just resting for a minute..."

John nodded, but his expression said it all – _he can rest in the car_ – and then crossed to the bureau; briefly digging through his duffel as it sat beside the television and then zipped it and shouldered it, exiting the room.

Dean sighed as he tracked John's movement through the open door and then glanced down at Sam. "Sammy..." he called, rubbing his brother's chest in an attempt to rouse.

Sam shifted, but the motion was more snuggling deeper into Dean than waking up.

Such trusting gestures from Sam always made Dean's protectiveness flare, and Dean instinctively tightened his grip around his brother.

Outside their room, John slammed his truck door.

Dean sighed again. "Sam..." he called a little louder.

Sam grunted his annoyance at not being allowed to sleep and opened his eyes, cutting them hard at Dean.

"Sorry, kiddo," Dean chuckled – the kid's expression reminding him of a sleepy, moody toddler – and grasped his brother's shoulders, carefully easing Sam to sit up. "But we've gotta hit the road."

Sam frowned as Dean slipped out from under him and stood. "Why?"

Dean turned to the first aid kit. "Because Dad got a call from Bobby about another hunt, and we're going to meet him a few towns over," he explained, tearing open a fresh alcohol wipe.

Sam nodded, sliding closer to the edge of the mattress and sitting patiently as he waited for Dean to do whatever he was going to do.

Dean crouched in front of his brother and felt his protectiveness flare once again as he noticed Sam's feet did not even touch the floor as the kid sat on the side of bed.

Sam frowned as Dean stared at him. "What?"

Dean shook his head. "Nothing," he replied, even though sometimes it bothered Dean just how _small_ his little brother was; made him worry even more about keeping Sam safe.

Sam blinked drowsily and yawned, wincing as his sore mouth stretched wide.

"Careful," Dean warned, dabbing at the remnants of dried blood around and between the stitches on Sam's chin.

Sam wrinkled his nose at the familiar sting but remained still.

Dean gave a final inspection to the row of sutures before tossing the used alcohol wipe into the trashcan. He then reached for Sam's sneakers at the foot of the bed, where the kid had kicked them off earlier before heading out to the pool.

"I need socks," Sam reminded but made no move to stop Dean.

"You can put them on later," Dean countered, knowing they did not have time for all that, and slipped the shoes on Sam's feet.

Sam sighed, looking beyond Dean as John entered the room with a large black trash bag in his hand.

John smiled warmly as Sam focused on him. "You boys almost ready?" he asked, picking up the blood-stained towel Dean had thrown on the floor earlier and stuffing it into the bag.

"Almost," Dean responded over his shoulder as he quickly tied the laces of his brother's sneakers – Sam seeming content to let Dean do so as he drowsily watched – and then stood; grabbing the first aid kit and crossing to the table in the corner.

Sam continued to sit on the edge of the mattress. His chin and mouth throbbed; his entire body was sore; and he was surprised by how exhausted he felt.

John grabbed the smaller hand towel Sam had been holding against his chin and shoved it into the plastic trash bag.

"Sam's bathing suit and my wet clothes are in the tub," Dean reported as he sorted through their duffels on the table.

"Yeah, I saw," John commented, pausing between the beds as Sam's eyes suddenly dipped closed – the kid seeming to fall asleep where he sat. "Sam..."

"He's okay," Dean quietly assured as he crossed to take the trash bag from John; his tone indicating he did not want his dad to disturb his dozing brother. "I told you he's tired."

John arched an eyebrow at the clipped tone of his oldest as Dean disappeared into the bathroom to gather his and Sam's wet clothes along with the blood-stained washcloth.

In the next instant, Dean was taking a final look in his and Sam's duffels – double-checking for toiletry kits – and then zipping the bags before shouldering both of them and grabbing the trash bag from the chair.

Dean glanced at Sam and then at John. "I'll be right back."

John nodded – knowing Dean was momentarily passing the responsibility of Sam over to him – as Dean exited the room. His oldest tossed the duffels and trash bag into the backseat of the Impala and then crossed to the trunk, spending an unusual amount of time searching for something.

John narrowed his eyes, wondering what could possibly be _that_ hidden in such a well-organized trunk. He glanced at Sam – who seemed fine, still sleeping where he sat– and then grabbed the weapons bag from under the corner table and crossed to the motel room door.

"Looking for something?" John called, leaning in the doorway and frowning when Dean did not immediately answer. "Dean..."

Dean sighed. "That stupid Queen tape," he remarked distractedly. "I could've sworn I put it..." his voice trailed off. "Never mind. Found it," Dean declared, leaning deeper into the trunk before slamming its hood. "'Bout damn time..." he muttered to himself as he approached the motel room's door.

John quirked a knowing smile as he glanced at the cassette in Dean's hand. "Queen, huh?"

Dean snorted. "Shut up."

John laughed as he brushed past Dean; his smile lingering as he crossed to his truck and carefully placed the weapons bag inside.

"We'll be out in a minute," Dean called to John as he slipped the tape into his jeans pocket and entered the room; his gaze immediately focused on Sam, just in time to see his brother slowly list to the side and softly land on the bank of pillows still propped against the bed's headboard.

Sam's eyes snapped open, even the soft landing painful to his sore body and stitched skin. He blinked against the sudden sting of tears and startled when Dean gently grasped his shoulder.

"Just me..." Dean soothed as he once again eased Sam to a sitting position and then pulled the kid to his feet, keeping a steadying hand on his brother's shoulder.

Sam stared up at Dean, a few rogue tears jarring loose as he blinked. "Sorry," he quietly apologized, swiping the back of his hand over his cheeks.

Dean smiled warmly and shrugged. "It's okay, kiddo. You've been through a lot over the past hour," he reminded, brushing Sam's bangs away from his eyes. "You're just sore and tired."

_...and entitled to a few random tears._

Sam nodded – always comforted by how well Dean knew him, how patient and understanding his big brother usually was when Sam was fragile – and inhaled a shaky breath.

Dean rubbed Sam's back – a gesture of comfort and encouragement – and then reached into the pocket of his jeans.

Sam sniffled and watched, instantly recognizing the artwork on the cover of the cassette as Dean held it out.

"Ever heard of these guys?" Dean asked conversationally, turning the case over in his hand as though he had never seen it.

Sam nodded and smiled. "I used to listen to them all the time, until my brother hid the tape from me."

"Dude, that's rough," Dean commented and shook his head in sympathy. "No offense, but your brother sounds like a dick."

Sam shrugged. "Sometimes," he conceded.

Dean scowled, but there was no heat in the expression.

Sam laughed softly and then shook his head. "But he doesn't mean it and usually makes it up to me."

Dean smiled and held Sam's gaze. "Well, since you put it like that, your brother sounds pretty awesome."

Sam grinned up at Dean, even though the expression stretched his sore skin. "He is," he said simply and knew Dean would hear what was left unspoken.

Dean's smile widened, and he nodded. _Love you too, kiddo._

There was a beat of silence.

"Dean...Sam..."

Dean glanced over his shoulder at the sound of John's voice calling them from the parking lot and then turned back to Sam, tilting his head toward the door. "Ready?"

Sam nodded. "Guess so," he replied, taking the cassette from Dean's hand. "Are you?" he asked, waving the tape in the air.

"Dude, I was listening to Queen before you were even _born_," Dean countered, following behind Sam as they exited the motel room.

"Then why don't we listen to them more often?"

"Because you drive me crazy listening to that 'Fat-Bottomed Girls' song," Dean defended, glancing at John as they approached the vehicles.

"I've checked the map," John informed, leaning against the hood of his truck. "We should be in Willow Creek in a couple hours."

Dean nodded, hearing Sam open the passenger side door of the Impala.

"Stay close," John reminded, as he did every time they headed out to a new location. He glanced at Sam – his youngest now sitting in the passenger seat, opening the cassette case – before looking back at Dean. "And have fun," he added, his lips hinting a smile.

Dean rolled his eyes good-naturedly and crossed to the driver's side of the Impala as John climbed into his truck.

"I think 'Fat-Bottomed Girls' is funny," Sam announced as soon as Dean was behind the wheel. "Don't you?"

"Not as much as you do," Dean answered, trying to remember what it was like to think like a 12-year old as he cranked the Impala. "Now, 'Bohemian Rhapsody'...that's a kick-ass song."

Sam shook his head and wrinkled his nose. "I don't like that song."

Dean rolled his eyes. "Of course you don't."

John cranked his truck and backed out of his parking space; nodding once to Dean before easing into traffic.

Dean did the same with the Impala and followed behind their dad.

"That song is depressing, Dean," Sam informed, as though he was the expert on such topics.

Dean frowned. "How do you figure that?"

"It opens with the guy talking about killing somebody," Sam stated flatly.

Dean shrugged.

"And then the guy is talking about how he wishes he was never born, and then they're saying they're never gonna let the guy go...even though he keeps asking...and then it talks about the devil being put aside just for him and how nothing really matters and just..." Sam shook his head, remembering the weird dream he had one time that was eerily similar. "I don't like it."

Dean briefly lifted his hands from the steering wheel in a surrendering gesture. "Dude, chill. It's just a song."

"Maybe," Sam agreed. "But I don't like it."

Dean chuckled. "Yeah. I got that part."

There was silence.

Dean glanced at Sam; his brother still grasping the cassette in one hand while the fingers of his other hand were lightly skimming back and forth across the stitches in his chin.

Dean frowned. "Hey..."

Sam's fingers continued to inspect the sutures. "What?"

"Leave 'em alone."

"They _hurt_."

"I know," Dean agreed. "But you'll make them even sorer if you play with them, so leave 'em alone."

Sam scowled.

"Sam..." Dean called warningly when his brother did not respond to his order.

"Fine," Sam sighed, finally doing as he was told – leaving the stitches alone – and instead leaned forward in the passenger seat; his mood instantly brightening as he shoved the cassette he had been holding into the tape deck. "Ready to sing?" he asked cheekily.

Dean snorted but offered no other response.

Sam laughed; waiting a few seconds for the tape to start playing and then fast forwarding through the first song.

Dean felt a hint of a smile and glanced at Sam.

The kid's bottom lip was red and puffy, and his chin was the same; the skin slightly puckered from the dark row of stitches. Sam's jaw was bruised in a remarkably vibrant pattern of blue and purple, and he looked tired and maybe even a little flushed from the low-grade fever stubbornly hanging on.

But despite all of that, Sam was inarguably happy at the moment.

And that was enough for Dean; was all that ever mattered.

Sam noticed Dean looking at him and grinned, wincing a little when the expression stretched his sore lip. But he was so ridiculously excited about being allowed to play "his song" – even if "his song" tended to change every month – that he could not help but beam at Dean, the best big brother in the world.

Dean smiled back and refocused on the road, signaling a right turn seconds after John did and bracing himself for what was to come.

And then...

"Are you gonna take me home tonight? Oh, down beside that red firelight. Are you gonna let it all hang out? Fat-bottomed girls, you make the rockin' world go round!"

Sam sang the opening chorus at the top of his voice – just like he always did – and then touched his chin and bottom lip during the guitar solo that followed, his eyes squinted in pain.

Dean frowned. "Be careful," he warned.

Sam nodded. "No blood," he reassured and showed his fingers to Dean as proof.

"Yeah, well..." Dean checked his rearview and then glanced again at Sam. "Keep it that way, huh?"

Sam nodded once more, readying himself to start singing the first verse.

And so it went for the next hour.

But when Sam did not immediately rewind the song, Dean knew the inevitable had finally happened – his little brother was asleep.

"'Bout time," Dean commented good-naturedly; because Sam had been obviously fighting sleep; had been yawning more than singing for the past 30 minutes.

Dean glanced to the passenger seat, not surprised to see Sam's eyes were closed; Queen apparently being no match for the combination of injury and fatigue, especially when those two factors were paired with the familiar, comforting rumble of the Impala.

Because the kid was definitely out for the count; was slouched in the seat and was already listing toward Dean.

Dean smiled affectionately; his attention flickering between Sam and the road as he turned his headlights on, turned the radio off – _finally_ – and then reached to pull the kid closer.

As soon as Sam felt Dean's touch, he instinctively curled even more toward his brother; his head on Dean's shoulder as he leaned against Dean and sighed; content and safe.

Dean's smile widened – continuing to steer with his left arm while wrapping his right arm around Sam – and settled in for the last hour of the trip; feeling surprisingly happy, despite the afternoon's events.

Because as long as Dean had his dad's taillights in front of him; his little brother beside him; and his car beneath him...life was good.

* * *

><p><strong><em>FIN<em>**


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